Mr. Howard raised his brows. ‘‘A trustworthy man. I applaud him.’’
The desk clerk’s smile faded. ‘‘I, too, consider myself trustworthy.’’
Mr. Howard tipped his head and laughed. ‘‘Do you? A wagging tongue is of value to me, Mr. Billings, but it does not make you trustworthy. Try talking to Chef René . Perhaps he’ll blunder and repeat something of importance.’’
‘‘He doesn’t slip up, and he doesn’t like me in his kitchen. If I’m to gather additional information, I’ll be required to find another way.’’
Samuel departed, uncertain whether Mr. Billings had been completely forthright. If the man had additional information, he’d likely been put off by Samuel’s comments just now. But Mr. Billings couldn’t keep his lips sealed for long. Eventually he’d come around. If nothing else, he’d succumb to the lure of a promotion or a promised pay raise. Unlike Chef René , the man was devious, but he had demonstrated his worth on several occasions and always proved himself loyal to the company.
Samuel stopped outside his office and asked one of the clerks to prepare a list of all available flats and boarding rooms currently available for rent. He dropped into his chair and swung around to face the window. There was no question Olivia had feelings for Fred DeVault. Her eyes sparkled at the mere mention of his name. And Mr. Billings had pointed out that Fred met her every evening after work. Of course, there was the attachment to Mrs. DeVault to consider, also. Obviously Fred had him at a disadvantage. Perhaps he could do something to shift matters to his benefit.
He lifted a large ledger to the top of his desk and traced his finger down the entries. Fred DeVault. He worked in electroplating. This should prove easy enough.
Within fifteen minutes, his clerk returned and escorted Mr. Godfrey into his office. ‘‘Sit down, Mr. Godfrey.’’ The man was obviously nervous. He was crushing his hat between his large hands. ‘‘No need to be concerned. Nothing’s amiss.’’
The man sighed as he slid into the chair. ‘‘Always a fearsome thing to be called to the business offices.’’
‘‘Well, we’ve had nothing but excellent reports about your performance, Mr. Godfrey, so you need not worry any further. There is, however, the need to switch some of your men to different shifts. I’m certain you’ll understand that I’m not at liberty to divulge the reasons.’’
‘‘Oh, of course not, sir.’’ He bobbed his head at a dizzying tempo. ‘‘Just tell me who you need changed around, and I’ll see to it.’’
Samuel handed the list to Mr. Godfrey. ‘‘I believe these changes will work quite well. If any of the men complain, you let me know.’’
‘‘Yes, sir. But I don’t think you’ll hear any complaints. All my men are pleased with their work. Is that all you need, then?’’
‘‘Yes. And if you could have those changes go into effect beginning tomorrow, that would help immensely.’’
‘‘Tomorrow? You don’t want to change over at the first of the week? It would give the men a few days to make the adjustment.’’
‘‘No, this needs immediate attention. If any of the men inquire, you can advise that this is Mr. Pullman’s order. The two of us are merely the messengers.’’
Mr. Godfrey jumped to his feet, once again massaging his hat with both hands. ‘‘Yes, sir. Good day to you, Mr. Howard.’’
When the door had closed, Samuel studied the changes he had noted in his ledger. Perhaps with Fred working the late shift, Olivia would be more inclined to spend her evenings with him. Though he harbored a modicum of guilt, he forced it from his thoughts. Fred had enjoyed the advantage for far too long. If Samuel was going to have a chance at winning Olivia’s hand, he must create his own opportunities.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The leaves crunched beneath her feet as Olivia ran around the corner of the hotel. After her recent encounter with Eddie, she had wondered if Fred would continue to meet her after work. When he had appeared that first day after revealing the news, she had been pleased. Apparently he considered their walks home more than an obligation. She waved as he approached. He frowned and offered a halfhearted greeting.
‘‘What’s wrong? Have I done something?’’ She tucked her hand into the crook of his offered arm and matched his stride, thankful the fall breeze wasn’t cold enough to force them home in a rush.
He shook his head and jabbed at the air with his free hand. ‘‘If it weren’t for my mother, I’d quit this rotten company.’’ His eyes blazed with anger as he spewed the words.
She tugged on his sleeve and came to a halt. ‘‘Fred! I’ve never seen you like this. What’s happened?’’
He turned to face her, his eyes still shining with a fury that frightened her. ‘‘Mr. Godfrey announced shift changes this afternoon. Beginning tomorrow, I’m assigned to the late shift.’’
‘‘Permanently?’’ She wanted to remain calm, yet she knew what this change would mean. Fred wouldn’t get off work until midnight. They’d seldom be able to see each other.
‘‘Yes. One of the men offered to trade with me, but Mr. Godfrey said no one would be permitted to exchange hours. He said the orders had come from Mr. Pullman without any explanation, and he was not authorized to change them.’’
He calmed a bit, and they continued onward. When he started to turn toward her house, she pulled him in the other direction. ‘‘Your mother invited me to supper tonight at your house. I have something to tell you, too.’’
Fred’s sullen look changed to surprise. ‘‘I hope it’s good news.’’
She hadn’t yet decided if it was good news or bad. For certain, it would change her routine. ‘‘Morgan is gone.’’ He opened his mouth to speak, but she went on. ‘‘Let me explain.’’ As they continued down the street, she offered him the same minimal report she’d given the others. If she added or detracted information, there would be too many questions to answer, too many lies to unravel.
He waited a moment, obviously expecting more. ‘‘That’s it? You have nothing more to add?’’
‘‘The earl asked that I keep my explanations to a minimum, and I believe I should honor my word.’’ What she had told him was the truth. She’d been careful. She didn’t want to lie.
‘‘But I have so many questions. This doesn’t seem reasonable. Why would they want Morgan? And why would you let them have him? I thought you believed Charlotte would return.’’
These were the same questions Mr. Howard had asked. ‘‘He will have a better life with them than I could provide. I truly can say no more, Fred.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Just when your obligations decrease and we could share more time together, I’m assigned to the late shift.’’ He opened the front door. ‘‘Life plays strange tricks on us, doesn’t it?’’
‘‘What’s this I hear about strange tricks?’’ Albert bounded into the hall, a grin splitting his face. His cheerful demeanor faded when he caught sight of them. ‘‘You two look like you’ve been at a wake. What’s happened?’’
Before either of them could respond, Mrs. DeVault bustled toward them, wiping her hands down the front of her faded apron. ‘‘Supper’s ready.’’ She glanced among the threesome. ‘‘What did I miss?’’
‘‘Give us a chance to wash up,’’ Fred told her, ‘‘and we’ll talk further at supper.’’
‘‘I hope it isn’t something that’s going to ruin our appetites.’’ Mrs. DeVault placed her hands on her hips. ‘‘I prepared a fine meal, and I don’t want it going to waste.’’
Fred patted his mother’s shoulder. ‘‘I doubt there’s much of anything that would ruin our appetites. At least mine or Albert’s. I’m not so sure about Olivia’s.’’
Once they were seated around the table, the four of them joined hands and bowed their heads, and Fred began to pray. Olivia peeked at him from beneath her thick lashes. He was uttering the usual words, but they were emotionless. She must remember to ask Mrs. DeVault about prayers. She hoped they all counted, even the ones like Fr
ed was praying, or the ones when she said no more than, ‘‘Please help me.’’ Perhaps they’d have a few moments alone after supper.
The food was everything Mrs. DeVault had promised: chicken, oven-roasted to perfection, mashed potatoes with creamy gravy, fresh peas, and fluffy biscuits with apple butter. Had Fred’s change of shifts not occurred, it would have been the perfect end to the day. He quickly complimented his mother on the meal, but the remainder of the supper conversation consisted of the men’s grievances and talk of unions. Olivia squirmed in her chair and attempted to change the conversation on several occasions, but Fred continually returned to the topic. If only Fred had received the job he’d been promised, she was certain he would be happy in Pullman. Unfortunately, this latest problem had only added fuel to the fire.
Olivia struggled to think of some way in which she might help. What if Fred could change jobs? What if there was an opening for a designer or an etcher? Mr. Howard would surely know of any possible vacancies. After this latest incident, she knew Fred wouldn’t go to his supervisor and inquire. But she could ask Mr. Howard. Perhaps he might be willing to help. Of course, she wouldn’t want Fred to know. She could ask Mr. Howard when he accompanied her tomorrow evening.
Mrs. DeVault patted Olivia on the arm. ‘‘I don’t want you sitting at home alone every evening. Even though Fred won’t be here, I’m going to expect you for supper the remainder of the week. We’ll keep each other company.’’
‘‘That’s very kind, but I have plans after work tomorrow. With Fred’s change in hours, you may want to reschedule your evening meal.’’
Mrs. DeVault shook her head and chuckled. ‘‘I’m an old lady. I can’t eat my supper at midnight. Besides, I’ve still got Albert to think of.’’ She gave Olivia’s cousin a wink. ‘‘Tell me, what plans do you have for tomorrow evening?’’
With as few details as possible, Olivia explained her need to move. ‘‘I plan to begin looking at flats after work tomorrow.’’
Fred helped himself to another spoonful of mashed potatoes. ‘‘You’ll need to request a list of available housing. Since I won’t be working in the morning, I’ll go over and ask one of the clerks in the Administration Building to prepare one. I can drop it off at the hotel.’’
She chased several peas around her dinner plate, worried he’d become angry with her if she divulged the truth. On the other hand, if he went to the Administration Building and said the list was for her, he’d likely discover the list had already been prepared at Mr. Howard’s request. Better to be truthful. Isn’t that what she’d promised God? ‘‘That’s kind of you, Fred, but Mr. Howard has already requested a list.’’
Fred’s fork dropped from his hand and clattered against the china plate. ‘‘Mr. Howard? How did he discover you’d be moving before any of us knew?’’
Olivia’s stomach muscles tightened into a knot. Fred didn’t miss a beat with his questions. ‘‘Word travels quickly around the hotel. He came to the kitchen today and inquired about my circumstances.’’
Fred tilted his head back and laughed. ‘‘Now isn’t that something, Albert! I don’t think Mr. Howard would come to the electroplating shop and offer to help either one of us, do you?’’
Mrs. DeVault pointed her finger at Fred and gave him a stern look. ‘‘Stop with your bantering, Fred. Let’s just enjoy our supper.’’
‘‘I wasn’t jesting, Mother. I was making a point. Mr. Howard has more than a passing interest in Olivia.’’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘‘And I’m not at all convinced Olivia hasn’t given him a bit of encouragement along the way.’’
How dare he make such an insinuation! Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she stared at him in disbelief. ‘‘That’s unfair of you. We’ve already discussed the fact that he has enough power to have me terminated at any moment. I don’t want to anger him.’’
‘‘There comes a time when you have to draw the line, Olivia. Just how important is your job?’’ His eyes were dark and brooding as he awaited her response.
‘‘What are you implying?’’ Olivia jumped up from the table and sent her chair clattering to the floor. She leaned down and retrieved the chair before slapping her napkin on the table. ‘‘I believe I should take my leave.’’
Fred shook his head. ‘‘Please! Sit down, Olivia. I apologize. My comment was uncalled for, and I beg your forgiveness. I know you would never compromise yourself.’’
Ever the peacemaker, Mrs. DeVault frantically tugged on Olivia’s hand. ‘‘Yes, please forgive him. He’s not himself with these happenings at work today. Please do sit down.’’
Olivia couldn’t deny the older woman’s request. But Fred’s outburst and judgment of her behavior had wounded her.
Fred had no choice but to listen. His mother had reared him to respect his elders, and he’d not abandon her teaching, no matter what his age. It didn’t mean he must agree with what she said, only that he’d listen and consider what she said. On this occasion, he knew his mother was correct. He deserved her censure, for his words to Olivia had been rude and hurtful. Little wonder that Olivia had pointedly requested that Albert escort her home. And Fred’s mother hadn’t wasted a moment telling him so. The minute Olivia and Albert had departed the house, she’d ushered him into the kitchen and handed him a dish towel. While she washed dishes and scrubbed the pots and pans, she lectured him. He dried and listened. Yet he was glad that she was finally winding down.
‘‘You had best do more than say you’re sorry or you’ll lose that young lady. She’s a nice girl, Fred.’’ She waved a soapy finger in the air. ‘‘And I like her!’’
He couldn’t help but laugh at his mother’s antics. Now she was playing matchmaker. However, his mother was correct. He needed to do something to make amends—something beyond a simple apology. He could purchase flowers or take her out to supper, but Olivia would appreciate something out of the ordinary . . . something original—like her. But what? As he placed the dishes on the shelves that lined the far kitchen wall, he noticed his mother’s recipe box. Olivia had spoken to him of her mother’s recipes and how important they were to her. A new recipe box! Yes, he would make her a box that would hold her mother’s old recipes and would be large enough to include the new recipes from the hotel kitchen.
His mother heartily approved the plan but was of little assistance when he asked about dimensions for the new box.
Mrs. DeVault wiped her hands on her apron and shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know how many recipes she has. Maybe you need a very big box, but if she has only a few of her mother’s recipes, then not so big.’’ She removed her apron and hung it on a hook near the sink. ‘‘I know! I have a key to the house. You can go and measure Olivia’s recipe box after she departs for work in the morning. That way you can purchase the wood and begin right away. Perhaps you could make a matching rack for her spices, too.’’
He grasped his mother by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘‘You always could figure out a way to solve my problems.’’
‘‘Go on with you. If you’re thinking you’ll wheedle another piece of pie with your compliments, you should know me better than that.’’
He laughed, pleased with his plan. First thing in the morning he’d go and take the measurements. Then he’d head off for the lumberyard, where he’d purchase some scraps of wood. With luck he would find some nice pieces of cherry. He would frame a glass lid for the box and etch her name in the glass. Then again, maybe glass wasn’t such a good idea. It would break too easily in the kitchen. He’d think of something to make it extra special, though.
The next morning, Fred paced back and forth in the hallway, checking the mantel clock each time he passed the parlor. He didn’t want to hurry to Olivia’s flat while it was dark outside, for Mrs. Rice might mistake him for an intruder. He decided that if Olivia’s next-door neighbor saw him enter the house, he’d explain that he was preparing a surprise for Olivia. If Mrs. Rice was anything like his mother, she’d relish the role of a willing participant in his secr
et. When the clock chimed at eight-thirty, he hurried out the door. The streets were quiet, with only an occasional shopper hurrying toward the Market and a few dawdling children, who would likely be tardy for school. Anyone scheduled for the morning shift would already be at work.
Mrs. Rice didn’t make an appearance when he approached the house. He’d make a point to knock on her door before departing. Better to take time and explain his presence rather than to fuel any gossip should she be watching him through the gauzy curtains. He put the key in the lock, heard the familiar clunk of the receding bolt, and turned the knob. The door opened easily, with only a faint creak to announce his entry. He walked inside—a trespasser. The thought stirred an eerily disturbing sensation deep in the hollow of his belly. Did thieves have these same feelings when they broke into someone’s home?
The moment he located the recipe box and checked the measurements, he would be on his way. He made his way to the kitchen, pleased when he immediately saw the oblong box sitting beneath one of the shelves near the stove. It was of rough pine, bigger than he’d expected. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in thinking she might need a new box, though if it was full, she’d soon need something larger. He lifted the lid. The box certainly appeared full, but mostly because of several bulky folded sheets in the front. Perhaps these were recipes Olivia planned to transfer onto smaller paper that fit in the box. He withdrew the pages and unfolded them.
He struggled to make sense of what he was reading. At the top of the page were the words Details for us to memorize. A list of sorts had been written directly beneath the heading. Charlotte will now be known as Mrs. Hornsby. Her hypothetical husband died. We supposedly met at a seamstress shop while she was having her mourning clothes altered. Don’t address Charlotte as Lady Charlotte. More details continued down the page. At first he thought it might be Olivia’s journal. But this wasn’t a diary. Instead, it was a list of strange information about Charlotte and Olivia.
In the Company of Secrets Page 25
